I search for the smallest seashell on the shore. Mosquitoes suck at me, and I foolishly scratch a bite on my ankle until it swells up to a disturbing size. Kayakers scurry by, but don’t say hello, maybe greeting us with a slight tip of the paddle, maybe ignoring us altogether. Two days ago I went off-island and explored a river bank in a mill town. Face-high flowers didn’t make me sneeze. Industrial equipment, sturdy though rusted, poked up out of the forest’s landscape and seemed more like treasure than trash. Back home, I peer into the woods in hopes of spotting deer. It sounds like rain is dropping off of leaves, but it’s the leaves dropping off of trees. Already.